Perfect Touchdown

AIDEN

Jake and I walk through the front doors of Delta Phi, which is packed to the rafters with unruly people. The smells of sweat and alcohol mix with vomit and piss to fill the air with a stench that churns my stomach with worry.

This is nothing like the parties we have; this is out of control.

This is dangerous.

“Come on,” I say to Jake, “let’s find the girls and get the fuck out of here.”

He nods, and we push forward but only get a few steps in before the redheaded twins from the cheer team stop us.

“What a surprise,” one of them says before the other one continues. “We didn’t expect to see you two here.” The first one then speaks again. “Yeah, didn’t think Papa Avery would let his children come out to play.” They both smirk.

Leah comes up behind them, her face like a slapped ass as she looks at us. She crosses her arms, narrows her eyes, and opens her mouth to speak—or hiss—but members of the football team embrace Jake and me, cheering as they drag us deeper into the house.

“Aiden!” a voice calls out from behind me.

Spinning, I have just enough time to extend my arms before Isabelle falls into them, her eyes full of panic. “Isabelle, what—”

“It’s Rylee! I think she’s in trouble.” She straightens and points up the stairs. “A guy, he shoved her, the bathroom. I think he’s—”

But I don’t need to hear the rest.

My instincts kick in before my mind does, and I bolt up the stairs, taking three or four at a time. A line of girls doing a small dance tells me which of the many doors leads to the bathroom, and without slowing, I ram my shoulder into the wood.

In unison, a deafening crack shatters the air, the girls scream, and the frame splinters as the door whips open on its hinges.

Warmth at my side tells me someone has joined me, but the sickening sight in front of me holds my focus captive.

Rylee is sitting on the sink, wide-eyed in terror, her mascara streaking, and her nails digging into the shoulders of a guy who is standing between her legs with his face buried in her neck.

Movement of the guy’s hand draws my attention to her chest, where he is squeezing her breast over her exposed bra. Then, my gaze drops farther, to the guy’s too-baggy jeans, to his undone belt buckle and fly, and to Rylee’s panties pulled halfway down her thighs.

With a jump, the guy spins, and relief comes over me when I see his underwear still in its proper place. But that is not enough to stop my fist from slamming into his nose the moment he steps away from her with both hands raised.

In my periphery, I catch Jake darting into the room and pulling Rylee away, while blood splatters down the front of this guy’s football jersey.

Number sixty-nine.

“Fuck, Reed! We were just having fun,” he says, his hand muffling his voice.

My eyes narrow on my infamously predatory teammate, and I go on a rampage—one that has been a long time coming.

Aiming my abuse mostly at his body and between his legs, I work him over in the bathroom until panicked pleas and screams ring out behind me. I grab him by the shirt, drag him to the hallway, and throw him down the stairs.

A tumbling thud, joined by gasps and more screams, brings the music to a halting stop.

When I reach his side again, I rip his jersey off and hold it up to the other players who are here. “This”—I wave it in front of their faces—“means something! If you don’t think it does, then you and this asshole can get the fuck out of here!

They say nothing, just look down at their groaning teammate and take a step away from him.

“Good! Now take this piece of shit to the campus police right now, or none of you will ever see a football field again! Got it? And you”—I point to a girl on the stairs who was in the line for the bathroom—“go with them as a witness.

They all do as I say, and after the front door closes behind them, the music starts up again like nothing happened.

People swarm around me, offering “good job,” “well done,” or “thanks, that guy was such a creep,” but I push past them in search of Rylee. Instead, I spot Isabelle huddling in a corner and talking on the phone.

“She’s okay,” Isabelle tells me after she hangs up. “Jake’s taking her home, and she’s not hurt. Well, not physically.” She gives me a small smile. “How are you?”

I sigh. “I was afraid something like this would happen.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’re women. I hate to say it, but we know these things are highly likely. I’m just happy you came when you did. I know Ry is too.”

We stand in silence, and when my adrenaline fades, I lead her back toward the music, with people patting me on the back as I go. I ask her if she wants to go back to her dorm room, but she says she needs a drink, grabbing the cup that is in my hand.

Where did that come from?

When she hands it back to me, I set it down.

“Come on,” she says, taking my hand. “Let’s have one dance to help me relax, then you can take me back to the dorms.” She smiles as she pulls me closer to the DJ.

One song turns to two, two turn to three, and I find myself loving being this close to Isabelle. So far gone is that awkward girl I remember, and in her place is a sexy, sensual woman who knows how to move her body.

She rubs against me, letting my hands roam over her curves, but by the end of the third song, she stumbles into me, suddenly unsteady on her feet. Apologizing, she steps back and shakes her head as if to clear it.

“Isabelle, are you all right? What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head again, more sluggish this time. “I’m not sure. My head is spinning. I feel really drunk.” Her knees buckle, and I catch her before she falls, putting my arm around her waist.

“I’m taking you home.”

I help her to the front door, and just as we reach the threshold, Isabelle goes limp. I nearly drop her as her body slides to the floor, and in a panic, I shake her.

But there is no response. She is completely out.

“Isabelle!”